Susan and Marcus 1, 10
by Fondued Jicama
Summary: I've decided to consolidate all 100 to one story instead of posting in groups of five. M&I, genres and degrees of AU vary.
1. Chapter 1

_For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts._

**Title: Red Glass**

Prompt: 'Too Much'

She watches him watching her. There's a slight glare on the C&C windows, the dark void of space reflecting back the red glow of low lights. He thinks she can't see him there, but she knows. She sees his face, captured in red.

She wonders what he's really thinking, why he's here. He looks tired in the light; his reflection shows every line, every crease that used to be a dimple or a smile. Surrounded by blackness, dark furniture, red shadows, she thinks for the first time about his age, five years her senior.

She thinks he looks old. She thinks he looks empty.

Perhaps it is only in times like this that she can truly appreciate Marcus Cole: when time stops and the pain is pushed back to its place on the brink of her mind, when nothing is calling her name, when he's quiet for once. He certainly doesn't seem to carry the air of seriousness or respectability in the daylight, not to her. She never sees these lines on his face; he hides them in smiles.

Minutes pass. She notices he's shifted his weight against the doorframe. Occasionally he runs his hand over his hair. He looks tired.

Almost imperceptibly, she pats the seat next to her. She does not turn around, but she knows that he sees. Her mouth is dry tonight and her hands are cold, and she is so damn tired of staring into space. The space outside, the space in him. The space in her. She wants a little company instead of uninvited demons.

The darkness rustles and he's there; he bows with a flourish and a tired smile, and sits. In silence, for once, damn him. The one time she could have and wanted to put up with his inane blabber.

More silence. Alcohol might be nice.

They both think so, perhaps for different reasons.

Getting sick of the black and the space that separates her from every other human being, the Commander sighs. 'Hell of a day.' Four words, long story told.

The Ranger takes a moment to respond. 'You could say that.' He looks at her with understanding and she catches his eye, and the understanding grows. He's another soldier in the game, just like her. He throws himself out on everything he sees and he hopes he'll die from it, just like her. It isn't something a sane person admits to anyone, so she hides it from herself, because insanity would just have to be another lovely gift from God, wouldn't it? On top of everything else. But he knows.

She leans back in her chair, continues to stare him in the eye. It's easier than looking down or acting embarrassed for making eye contact; that kind of game is wonderful for people who actually have the time for it, and she does not. This is about something deeper.

She is not a woman scrambling for passion and fury, and he is not a man attracted to most at all.

She is not looking for love. He cannot say what he is looking for, but he knows he sees it in her.

Tonight he understands, they understand, she understands. She feels it in the air and it frightens her; it frightens her that he knows. It frightens her how his grey eyes watch her with interest; it frightens her how he examines her face, as if he sees her own lines there.

Perhaps he had known after all. Watching her watching him- this is comeuppance. This is being bare in front of another person, and she isn't even naked.

He looks down first and the loss of contact is so abrupt, she thinks he is about to leave.

He covers her hand instead and she closes her eyes. She never thought it would be this way, that she would end up old and bitter like this, but instead of feeling guilty she is content. It's the way she is, and she knows he knows as if she sent him a message through her arm through his arm to his brain.

She glances up again, intending only to look for a moment, but he is too fast and he catches her eyes. The Commander suffers from a momentary lapse in defense: she feels. She gazes, she enjoys the view, the touch and the company. Something inside flutters, something burns.

He is red in the darkness. It is cold, and she tells herself she can't let this happen, but it happens to be too late. It also happens that she cannot manage to force her brain matter to transmit a message to her hand, ie let go of his. In compromise with herself, she decides it's because she is too tired to be bothered to move.

She feels his fingers filter between her own, his thumb tracing the contour of her hand. She wonders if he is even conscious of his actions. Detachedly, she wonders what events could have transpired today to make him act this way, what revealed his seriousness and undoubtedly his fury as well. After thinking upon it, this is her conclusion- she really doesn't want to know.

She knows the morning is coming soon. No sun rises to tell her, but she's been in this game for far too long not to know, even though the darkness only seems to deepen in the passing of the hours. She does not move.

Soon, in the artificial daylight of the Station, she will solve problems and police Drazi and pull her hair out. She will run into Ranger Cole in the hallways and yell when he waylays her with useless drabble. She will move onwards and fill her life with a powerhouse of military efficiency.

She looks at him. He looks at her. He smiles.

He is too much. She doesn't want to love two men at once; she cannot abide a man who wears a mask. She has a mask of her own.

But for now, Commander Susan Ivanova has a warm hand in her own. She is not alone, and for tonight, someone outside of herself understands her heart.


	2. Chapter 2

_For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts._

**Title: Moral Scruples**

Prompt: 'Not Enough'

It has been said, in regards to people, to human nature, that they often stumble upon the greatest things on accident. Every man in this universe is hurdling along towards their ambitions, they keep their eyes on that single golden star that changes for each of them; and so often, they are too blind to everything else to see what is really there.

Sometimes the universe allows them to continue on their ill-founded quest of madness. Sometimes the universe throws a kink in the line, instead, and watches, and says, 'ah, that's better now... you're finally on track again, you stupid bloke.'

Marcus thinks about this as he sits and waits for guard duty in another hour, covering for Stephen, on a sad little excuse of a planet called Mars. He wonders if the universe really knew what it was doing. After all, maybe he wasn't happy on Arisia, but... he had a girl, an amazingly successful business to run, and a hell of a lot of money.

Now he has nothing, really. A few dreams that make him want to cry because of their pitifulness. A retractable stick, some clothes, a pin, an honest living. He thinks about these things in a derogatory fashion for a moment, just to make himself feel better. He'll wait a while after that and then convince himself it's all for the good and the better and the light and all that, and in this way he balances out his emotions.

Cry first, get all serene later. His Mum was awfully good at that.

After he is done with this little pity routine, Marcus turns his thoughts to other things:

1.), he hopes nobody has a party at the Station and mugs people in his absence, and all that;

2.), Susan;

3.), the rent on his room is going to be a week late again, and he wonders how much longer his manager will stand the excuse 'I was out rescuing our universe' before he drags him out by his testicles;

4.), Susan;

5.), his closest friend has not nearly the moral scruples of himself, due to him having fun with that pretty blonde Ranger One without so much of a let's-go-have-tea-first.

Why can't he be a normal man like Stephen, lacking in the reasoning section of the brain? Why can't he just go home- yes, that's what he calls it, now- sweep her off her feet, kiss her, tell her he wants her to have his children, etc, etc?

He tries not to laugh at this thought. Too loud.

Marcus is not one to lie to himself. He could vow to change his ways and become less sexually obscure, but he knows he never would. There is a part of him that is extremely feminine- in an entirely masculine way, of course. He's a Romantic; descended from a long line of Romantics who were taunted and called sissies by the Norwegians and Muslims and Romans and Nazis and all that. Even the French. He has to say, being called a 'sissy' by one of them truly completes the insult.

All the same, with a life like his, he has to believe that something's gonna give. It will probably be him, especially if Stephen keeps yelling like that.

Marcus looks for a room with thicker walls.


	3. Chapter 3

_For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts._

**Title: Running Into You**

Prompt: 'Passing'

Susan Ivanova moves with purpose through the corridors of Blue Sector, heading towards a meeting with Ambassador Mollari. Blue, while not as busy as the insane marketplaces in Red, still has its fair share of mid-day traffic. Many of the residents, recognising the Commander, determinately stay out of her way.

Blue Section is the Commander's favourite. Besides being the ring where she conducts all her business, it has an official, clean feel. Things run right here- generally. Sometimes she wishes she could just jettison the other sections off into space.

The thought makes her smile- no more crazy vendors, like in Red, secretive alien meetings, like in Grey, or all-over general slummish behaviour- Brown. Perhaps she would spare Green Sector. She was rather fond of the gardens, when she had the _time_ to visit them.

She sees Stephen moving in the halls at a brisk pace; they nod their hellos, and keep walking. There is little time for pleasantries, sometimes, and today is one of those times.

Her mind returns to business; she thinks about the packet tucked under her arm. She has evidence the Centauri have violated several peace agreements, and besides being damn angry about it, she wants to know why. She's never truly trusted the Centauri Ambassador, and so far Londo has done nothing to assuage her paranoia.

Looking at her packet, as Susan turns, she fails to see a second person in her hallway, who also fails to see _her. _She briefly experiences the sensation of her brain flipping upside down and her feet flying out from under her and someone with a voice suspiciously like hers' saying 'damn-' before it all goes blank. Her folder, his folder, everything goes flying.

"Ivanova." She vaguely hears someone say. "Susan, wake up, there's a dear."

She blinks and tries to focus her eyes. Is that Marcus there? Yes... he must have run into her, damn him.

"What year were you born?" he asks.

"2230," she answers automatically.

"And where?"

"Saint Petersburg."

"And how many fingers am I holding up?" He wiggles a few at her.

"Oh, shove it," she answers.

He grins. The Commander definitely isn't suffering any lasting damage.

He watches her for a moment, just to be sure. She glares at him.

"You really need to watch where you're going, Cole." Her voice is practically abrasive. She fumes at him, inwardly, and tries to stand.

He steadies her, just a little, and replies, "I _was, _Commander. How was I to know you were right around the corner, absorbed in scintillating paperwork?"

She seethes, grabs her folder, and pushes past him. "Watch your _tone, _Ranger." He watches her go.

When she is almost to the corner, he calls after her. "Ivanova?" She turns around, practically skewering him where he stands. Yes, she was going to look into that jettison thing. Especially Brown Sector. Especially when he was _in _Brown Sector.

"Yes?" she asks, a little rigidly. For a second, just looking at his face, she thinks she sees something different there. Warm.

"You look dashing while unconscious."

She storms away, furious. He looks after her retreating form, and his eyes are dancing.

He can only wait until she realises she has taken the wrong packet.


	4. Chapter 4

_For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts._

**Title: Shattered**

**Prompt: 'Broken'**

"_Susan!"_

He sits alone. It's dark in his room, completely dark; he had to cut off the power source just to get the damn lights to go off.

Lying on his Minbari bed, he remembers how she hates them and he cries. He remembers what she said to him that afternoon and he cries. He remembers what she did and he cries. He can't stop the vicious wells in his heart from rising up.

Bitterness shakes his light frame; he curls his fists tight, his chest heaves. He has tried so hard in his life to do things right and be a good man, but everything he touches freezes and dies. Nothing has ever gone right for him.

He didn't want his father's life or business. He didn't want to be that kind of man, didn't want the harsh way it forced itself into his mind. He didn't want to be there. It changed him, made him arrogant and cold. Will had known. Will tried to save him from that life.

He didn't want to be a Ranger. He didn't want to live for anything, let alone the One. He was tired of everyone smiling and thinking he was decent, he was alright; his heart, twisted and cynical, was nothing like anyone imagined. He hated himself for his inefficiencies.

Now, thinking about these recent hours, he still does.

He should have- _could have_- gotten her out of the way. It wasn't fair. In mental anguish, Marcus plays the scene over and over in his brain, judges the time, the distance, his warning. He had time to get to her, he convinces himself of this. The facts are there, in his mind, irrefutable. He damns himself for being too slow.

Too slow, too unobservant, useless. Utterly useless if he couldn't even save what was most important to him out of everything he knew.

Down the hall, she lies in a sterile room while doctors try to put her pieces back together. Down the hall lies his lily, his angel lies down the hall; her face horridly puffy from bruising, edema, internal damage, shock. Her skin so pale.

Thinking about her almost drives him mad: he pounds his fists into the wall and cries.

All those dreams of holding her and he can't even get within ten feet of her now, can't hold her hand. Even if they let him in her room, he couldn't _touch _her. She'd shatter apart.

He can't understand why this happens to her. She's the backbone of everything _good_ going on in the Universe. Without her, even with everyone else, with Sheridan, he cannot believe the Station would still be spinning, still be free. He can't imagine all the treaty worlds coming to fruition without all her sweat going into it too. He can't imagine Earth being free from Clarke's regime.

To Marcus, she _is _Freedom.

In the dark, his eyes are vacant, but his brain is moving too fast. He's in the conference room with the doctor again, listening to their preliminary results. Vertebra shattered in eight places. Spinal fluid leaking everywhere. Crushed ribs, damaged lungs, no function in one and a half kidneys. Skull fracture. Concussion. Broken tibia. Broken left arm and left leg. The list goes on.

He imagines her there, struggling to breathe. He imagines her trying to breathe for the next _week_, the struggle increasing, liquid filling her lungs. The tears sting his red-rimmed eyes as he imagines her drowning to death in her own body.

He's killed, seen death, but the death she faces is not one he would wish on anyone. Except for, perhaps, the bastards that put her there. Except for himself.

He wishes with all he has left he could die in her place.

000

_Thanks so much for the support on this, guys. :) I appreciate every single comment you give, especially the critiques. 100 stories... ayayaye. /Sweatdrop/_


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: Leaving**

**Prompt: 'Beginnings'**

On a ship heading for Earth, Susan watches Babylon 5 slip away behind her, surrounded by stars and nothingness.

For a second, she is seized by the desire to go back, to return and tell them all she hadn't mean it; that she was ready, now, to take command of the station. To walk those halls again and fall into bed every night, exhausted and alone; to see the same familiar faces during those same busy days. To go through stacks of paperwork and alien dilemmas and pots of illegal coffee. To try again.

But now, as she watches the last four years fading away behind her, she knows there is a time for everything. A time for endings. She can't go back, now, even if she truly knows she wants to; it would never be the same. It never will be.

Too many hearts have been broken, too many wars fought, too many losses taken. She knows the Station will continue to be the beacon of hope it had always been, for aliens and humans, for unity. And yet... they had set out, in their final, great battle, to save the Station, and the Station had been saved; but not for her.

Yes, this was necessary. She looks through the observation windows one last time, and then they're in hyperspace; it winks out of view. She turns, resolutely, to sit down.

She feels alone, but her back is straight. She can manage, she knows; she can rebuild her life. But she will never love again.

Somehow, the thought does not fill her with horrible feeling; it's simply a straight-forward acknowledgment of the truth. She is a whole person because another is broken. She walks, she smiles- on the outside at least- because another lies in an eternal, grave sleep. She is able to accept this, accept herself and all her ugly faults, because _he _did; and his love for her manages to bring her forgiveness.

000

The ship lands. She stands, swings her bag over her shoulder and a brown parcel under her elbow, and steps off into the port. The busy sounds of people thrum all around her; it feels alive, and for a second, a very small part of her heart soars free. It says, I am Home. Home. Earth. She walks into the crowd.

Spotting a sign that points her in the direction of the bathrooms, she struggles against the bodies and turns right. On the other side of the flimsy bathroom door, a line of women wait for an opening. She steps in line. She waits.

When it is her turn, Susan closes herself in her stall and opens the brown package. Inside, folded neatly, rests her new uniform- her new life. She pulls off her pants and replaces them with the formal, carefully pressed ones; she buttons the new shirt over her white blouse. Her long fingers guide the Captain's beret carefully over her tightly-wound bun of brown hair.

And lastly, her heart pounding queerly, she fishes a bright pin out of her old pants, and sighs. It means too many things.

Her faults. His life. Her fall. His love. Her fury. His forgiveness. She pins it to the inside of her undershirt; the smooth green stone presses against her skin. She steps outside.

A new queue of women has formed in the bathroom; they stare, to see her go past. She walks swiftly away from them, back straight, long strides, solemn face. As the women watch her pass by, each one wonders if they have that spark of strength inside.

As for Susan: her mind is already on Military matters. What will be the number of her crew? How many command staff, technicians, medical staff? Will she have a real shower, for once?

Looking over the tops of the sea of heads in front of her, she searches for the shuttle that will take her to her reporting center. She spots it, sighs, and moves forward.

A time and a place for everything. A time, and a place, for new beginnings.

000

A/N:

1.) The line '_They had set out, in this final, great battle, to save the Station, and the Station had been saved; but not for her' _is a nod to Frodo, in case anyone is curious. The concept was poetically fitting. :)

2.) Thanks y'all. Hope you enjoyed. :)


	6. Chapter 6

_For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts._

**Title: Getting Ready**

**Prompt: Fixed**

It is dark in Susan's room; a single light shines from the kitchen. Over the sink, clutching a glass of amber ale, stands Marcus. His head is too busy, tonight, for sleeping.

With a sigh, he leans against the cupboard and tries to smooth his mussy hair. When he stares into his glass he sees his brother's reflection, his brother smiling. His brother saying, 'you're happy, now, big brother; I'm glad for you...'

And it's alright, for once, because he is.

In the other room sleeps a woman more precious to him than anything. He doesn't say it to her; not because he is ashamed, but rather she isn't ready to hear. He takes what he can get.

He notices her coming out of her shell, so to speak. More and more often as the days go by, he sees her smiling. Sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, she will even go so far as to take his hand in public.

She isn't ready for some things, yet. He sleeps beside her, but he knows, in spite of that, she isn't ready for the ring he hides behind the silverware. She isn't ready for proposals or kissing in public. She isn't ready for roses, either, but he ignores that and gets them anyways.

It's so quiet he can hear the faucet dripping; compulsively, he reaches behind him to tighten it. It continues leaking. He gives up, lifts his glass, and pads over to the refrigerator for another drink.

She got him started on that, too. Her and her bad habits.

He leans against the back of a chair, drinking. He feels something in the pocket of his cloak, draped over the chair; it's a piece of paper. Folded in half, it has her handwriting on it; it says, 'thank you, you ugly fleabag, for everything. Susan.' Looking at it, he chuckles to himself and tucks it back in the pocket. She's so abusive; he'll get her back. Maybe with roses.

He hears shifting noises from the other room. A sleep-muzzy voice reaches him through the hallway. "Stop drinking my booze and come back to bed."

"Of course, my lady," he replies, setting the glass in the sink. "Though it's my booze, not yours.'" He can't understand her and vodka: it has no flavour. Other than the taste of alcohol, he supposes, if one could say it_ counted_ as a flavour.

He slips off his wool sweater and slides back under the covers. She feigns annoyance with him. "It was in my refrigerator, so it's my alcohol. That's how it works around here."

In the dim light, she can just make out his grin. "I don't think so. Just because something's gotten put someplace, doesn't mean it doesn't belong to him who bought it."

"I beg to differ," she says. "That fridge? Is in my quarters. It belongs to me. All the things inside belong to me. Heck, this bed belongs to me. You're in my bed. _You _belong to me."

Oh. Well then.

Couldn't really argue with that.

000

_If you read these and enjoy them, you don't have to review, but I would ask that you pimp them somewhere. Your journal, forum, whatever. Spread the love. :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_Because Mari Inspires. _

_For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts._

**Title: Truths**

**Prompt: 'Touch'**

He holds her hand sometimes and they just walk around, when noone is looking. He thinks about how it's taken her so long, but now she understands and it's alright, and he knows it, and so does she.

She's glorious; her back is straight and there are lines around her mouth from an eternally stern expression. It makes him smile, he wonders how long she practiced looking so tough. How long it took before she became what she wanted everyone to see, how long before the hard shell covered the softness underneath.

He'd never tell her, of course, but he knows the truth: she's a creampuff, really. A deadly creampuff.

The fire and strength and fury that spreads upwards, when she unleashes her wrath, are truly a part that comes from deep within; he knows what she is capable of. But the daily stern ice-Commander is a facade. It hides pain.

Perhaps she doesn't even remember what she hides for, anymore; perhaps the original hurts have been covered over by years and years of new scars, layers of snow over ice that harden when the rains come. Underneath, the torrential river flows, and the spirit is free. But every year it becomes even more deeply embedded.

He joshes around with her, makes her laugh, and she elbows him a little. She's boss, she says. Okay, he says, you be boss, but I will always be your protector and I will always love you. He only speaks with his eyes, and she isn't even looking.

She can't imagine why anyone would ever love her. She's broken, and she hides herself and it makes her feel so guilty. Embarrassed. She wishes she could be free; she doesn't want anyone to know how ashamed she feels over herself and her hidden actions, regrets. Sometimes it isn't things she has done that she hides because of shame; sometimes it is only feelings. Shame of feeling angry, too angry; shame of feeling sad. Shame of feeling.

The Commander lacks a certain part of the human DNA that clearly states it is okay to have faults. Even if she had it, he suspects she would bury it under the ice in the river.

Sometimes, like tonight, when she lets him sit next to her, sometimes she thaws through. The gentle pressure of his arms around her shoulders breaks her loose of her own ties, and she grieves, remembering. Remembering everyone else she has been close to. And she is ashamed to cry.

"You're perfect," he says, desperately trying to make her understand she can't be responsible for all the sins in all the worlds. It doesn't help; it makes her feel even worse, and she pushes him away.

"Shut up." She pauses, hides her head in her hands, sighs. "I'm ugly. You don't know me." She doesn't have the words to express everything she has ever done wrong. He needs to understand; if he knew he'd leave. He'd hate her like everyone else, and he'd be right to.

It's always too hard to do what she has to do; she hates driving people away. It would be easier just to shoot them.

It doesn't work: he does not believe her. He does not get up, he does not start swearing melodramatically, he does not proclaim he hates her. It never worked on anyone else so she wonders why she thought it would work on him. She feels like Cassandra.

Instead of listening to her prophetically ominous words, he smiles; no pity for her. No shame. "Susan, I passed the self-hatred classes with flying colours. You lose at this game, trust me." He squeezes her hand.

She reclines on her couch. The lights are dim. "I tried to warn you," she says a little sardonically, "so don't make a mess when I break your heart. I can't help it." Shrug. "I hurt people...just by living, I guess. I'd be doing everyone a favour if I got a hobby like Russian roulette." She looks at him, raises her eyebrows, smiles a little despairingly. He holds her eyes with his.

Seconds pass. "What?" She asks, when he doesn't speak.

"You're beautiful," he replies, and she bites back the urge to throw something on his head. There's a pillow next to him; maybe she could smother him with it and nobody would know.

Instead, she untwines her fingers from his, again, and folds her arms. "I thought I already explained this." She knows he thinks she's got a nice figure, but Marcus has always had the odd habit of speaking deeper than most.

"You did," he replies, biting back a grin. "You established you have a taste for overdramatic melancholy." He pokes her in the arm; he smiles; his bright teeth flash against the fluorescent lights.

"Don't make me throw you out in the corridor. Naked," she adds. She watches his reaction; the way he leans back, the way he folds his hands, raises his eyebrows. The way he could almost be blushing. She can't be sure in the near-darkness.

"This sounds like war," Marcus replies, a little breathlessly. With a mischievious grin, he reaches in his pocket and extracts his Denn'bok. "I may have to defend myself. With my pike."

Him and his Freudian jokes; she tries not to laugh, but her mouth twitches. "You want a drink?"

She leans forward and somehow manages to pull her tired ass off the couch.

"I don't, thank you," he replies. She shakes her head and pours two glasses.

"You do in my house."

A rebuttal comes to his lips and dies there. He hasn't drank anything since he joined the Rangers, since Will died. He accepts the shot anyways and downs it; the taste is almost more bitter than he remembers it being. Bitter like memories.

She's impressed by his drinking skills, and pours him another. He takes it without a word and drinks it, too, and then turns over his glass. He's been so indoctrinated by the Minbari, he almost wonders if he wouldn't go all psycho like Lennier if he let himself get drunk.

"You say you're not a drinker. You were?" She asks, leaning back against the counter with her own shot in hand.

He sighs and smiles resignedly. "I'm a miner's son. It kind of goes with the territory." A shadow covers his face for a second and then clears: "I quit when my life went to Hell."

"Really?" she says, her tone ironic, "that's when most people _start."_ When she started. When her father started. When her mother started.

"There aren't many vodka trees in Tuzinor," he replies dryly.

Silence.

She's playing with her glass again; suddenly she sets it down, and looks at him. Her voice is husky, partly from the liquor, partly something else. "C'mere." Her face is almost unreadable, nearly solemn, nearly guilty, and sad; he's drawn to her and his heart calls to touch her cheek.

"You're perfect," he echoes his earlier words. She looks down, her face tight. "Susan," his voice is gentle, and it fills the quiet kitchen.

Suddenly she feels heavy. She tries to be close to him, and the damn man has to pull love into it again. It's inconvenient.

"Look at me," Marcus says, in the same quiet voice; she makes herself look up and fights off the impulse to be rebellious. "You will never drive me away. You will never break my heart." She starts to smirk at his flowery prose, to look down, but he bends over to meet her eyes. "You could sleep with every damn man on this Station and I'd still love you." He might kill the bastards, he thinks, but he'd still love _her._

Susan chooses to avoid his gaze again, for a different reason than before; her shame and guilt rise up and sting her eyes. When he gives in and touches her cheek, it only makes it harder, and a tear of frustrations slips down her face.

Watching her struggles, his heart is full of her, and he pulls her close to him in a moment of nearly paternal concern; she tenses against him, relents as he rubs her back. Relents as he takes her pain and hurts for her.

He doesn't know if she knows, but he really isn't an emotional man; he was known by his workers, when he had a company all those years back, as a stiff. A dead man walking who perhaps drank a bit too much and hated his job, regardless of his brilliant mind for it. Only his secretary had seen something else, and he'd been too hesitant to let it show, even around her. Then it was too late.

When he's around Susan, though, it is inexplicably easier. Her troubles are so very much like his own and it brings out a side he never knew, before, that he could have ever shared with anyone. A side that believes in silly things like love, and hope, and peace. A side he wants to share with her more than anything.

He can hear her heavy breathing against his cloak. He waits for her to organise her heart.

A moment passes; she shifts, and her dark eyes regard him with resignation. "You should kiss me now, you fool," she whispers lowly, her accent oddly thick.

He bends over her, shyly; she wraps her arms around his neck, rises up to meet his lips. Feels the way his skin prickles as she touches him; he sighs in utter contentment and rests his cheek against hers. Something warm begins to work itself out of Susan's heart at the sound and the feeling of his hands, grasping and ungrasping slowly at the back of her shirt. She lets the warmth free, and it spreads.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, and she's beginning to believe it.


	8. Chapter 8

_For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts._

**Title: Childish Games**

**Prompt: 'Children'**

He's playing with children. His eyes dance as they giggle and run circles 'round him; they flip his cloak up over his face and he grabs the closest one, a little girl, and tickles her.

The sound resounds through the room, and as Susan Ivanova watches, she smiles. She wonders if he knows how much of a clown he's making himself, and she wonders if she still has it in herself to be that way. It looks much more scintillating than paperwork.

Clearing his face of cloth, Marcus looks up at her and grins. He ruffles a little one's blonde hair and extricates himself from the throng, to stand next to her. She gingerly pats his hair back, to make him look a little less like an ape, and regards him with guarded amusement.

"You make them seem so happy. I almost can't believe they're the same kids." They leave the conference room, today a temporary daycare, and enter a larger room outside. Chairs surround the table that used to be in the room next door. They sit, waiting for Stephen and the Captain to join them to discuss the orphan situation in Brown Sector.

Marcus smiles, just a little, in appreciation. "They just want someone who cares a little. It's hard enough living in Brown Sector when you're old enough to take care of yourself. I can't imagine having to grow up there alone." He doesn't mention the hardships he sees there almost daily; he knows she knows he lives in Brown, though probably not exactly where.

He imagines, knowing the living conditions of many, the life of a child Lurker. The thought nearly makes his blood run cold.

Across from him, Susan leans back in her chair and fidgets with her pen absentmindedly. Watching her, his train of thought changes and he bites back a smile; he wonders if she even notices what she's doing. It smacks as something rather Human, instead of Commander; who would have thought.

"It almost surprises me," she says teasingly, "that you don't have any children."

"Is that an offer, Commander?" He replies. His own audacity shocks him, but he manages to keep a straight face.

For a moment, she stares at him, open-mouthed. Slowly, an appreciative grin spreads; so- he knows how to play.

She sits up very tall, tilts down her head, and smiles: this is her stance for the game. "That depends on what you're willing to give up."

Her implications are not lost on him, though this is not their usual kind of game. He knows he is playing with fire, but he doesn't care.

He nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders. "I'm a poor man. Sorry to disappoint, but there's really not much to give." The room's atmosphere changes quite rapidly, and they both notice it. Watching her, waiting for her reply, he knows it's more than just a game; there's too much truth in his words.

He locks with her eyes; she leans slightly across the table, like a chess player.

Stephen, walking in the room, raises his eyebrows. "Commander, Marcus," he acknowledges, "talking about children?"

Marcus smiles. "Quite."


	9. Chapter 9

Summary:

_It is August 30, and it is Susan Ivanova's birthday. She doesn't notice._

_For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts._

**Title: Roundabout**

**Prompt: 'Birthday'**

At 1800 hours, Susan walks back to her quarters after a long shift; she's been up since four and started to feel it about fourteen hours ago. She runs her fingers through her hair, which is loose for once, and slides the keycard through the slot.

As she steps inside, a smooth tenor voice calls after her. "Susan-! Wait a second, if you'd please."

She really wouldn't. However, one must be an example when one is the Commander of something- in this case, a monolithic metal bubble in space that serves as a small planet for trade and diplomacy.

"Marcus," she says, turning to face him. She notes the way his eyes widen when he sees her, and wonders if she really looks as awful as she feels.

"It's your birthday," the Ranger says by way of reply; a merry smile lights his handsome face. He shoves a red packet at her.

Standing in her doorway, Susan feels a jolt of shock race through her; she had completely forgotten. Hell- how old was she now? Thirty? Thirty-one? She stares at him open-mouthed, before realising what she was doing and snapping her mouth shut, forcing on a smile, and taking the packet.

Marcus watches all of this in silence. "You forgot your own birthday," he says in wonder. This amuses him greatly for some reason, and he laughs; he'd never forget _his_ birthday, even though other people might.

"Open it," he gestures at the packet.

Susan tears off the paper and feels her jaw go slack. "Belgian chocolates," she whispers in a lower voice than usual. "You imported a box of Belgian chocolates."

"Yes, well, not too difficult if you know the right people. Collected on some favours, that sort of thing." He waits for her to say something. "I'd be glad to eat them if you don't want them."

Susan clutches the box to her chest compulsively, like they had transformed into her firstborn child. "Mine." The box begins to cave in from the pressure of her arms.

Holding up his hands as a sign of peace, Marcus laughs. "No, you're welcome to them all, if you want them that much." He pauses; she eyes the box hungrily. "There is a second part to your present. I took the liberty of booking us a table at the Fresh Aire for seven o'clock."

Susan, pulled out of her chocolate-laced reverie, stares at him in shock. "You _what?" _

"Oh, you know. Figured every woman likes an expensive dinner, especially when she's not paying."

"I have work-"

"It's your _birthday. _Don't you dare try to get out of it that way. Commander," he adds on the end. "I'll be back to escort you there in half an hour."

With that, he leaves the Commander staring after him with a priceless expression on her face.

OOO

Stepping out of her shower, Susan sits on her bed in a bathrobe and sighs. "To borrow your own expression," she says to her wall, "bloody hell."

She had suspected he liked her for a while now- just from little things he'd done, things Stephen had hinted at (with none too little amusement on his part), those roses. But there was always something about his flirting that was just that- flirting- and had never seemed to her to be serious. She had never imagined he would ask her on a date, regardless of his rather heated manner of staring at her when he thought she wasn't looking and his endless string of innuendos.

Perhaps it was because- she admits- she never wanted him to. She'd never wanted _him._

A smile creeps to her lips involuntarily. He is always the gentleman. She could refuse to go tonight, but no, she will go and let the gentleman have his way this once, just because it _is _her birthday.

She dries her hair. She dons a dress. She puts on her makeup, her high heels. The door chimes.

OOO

The buzz and clatter of people fills the Fresh Aire as Susan and Marcus enter. Marcus walks with her to the reception desk, still holding her hand; to the lady behind the desk, he points at Susan. "Susan Ivanova," he says, as if it holds significance; apparently, it does, as the lady gestures behind her.

"Behind me to the left, reservation room," she drawls.

"Reservation _room?_" Susan's eyebrows shoot sky high. "I thought you said you reserved a _table." _

"I did," he answers mysteriously, dimples barely showing beneath his dark, sculpted beard. He guides her past the close-set tables, the guests occasionally looking up at the gorgeous woman in red and her escort in black.

As he gets to the door, he drops her arm, even though he only needs one to open the door. She wonders why he let go so suddenly, but his face is hard to read.

"Susan Ivanova," he says in a louder voice than necessary, "may I present to you-" he opens the door-

"SURPRISE!"

A volley of voices hit her at once: Michael, John, Delenn, Lennier, Zach, Stephen, David, even G'Kar. The Commander stares at them, then stares at Marcus; he grins back at her like a fool, entirely too pleased with himself.

Inside the reservation room, a handful of tables heaped with steaming trays are surrounded by her friends, who have started to clap enthusiastically; behind her, she realises the guests outside of the room are clapping, too, and she turns bright red.

"_Guys,_" she says, pulling the door closed behind her. And there is laughter and 'Happy Birthday' and Marcus pulling her seat out for her, and a mountain of food.

"Happy birthday, Susan," John says, reaching over to give her a hug. His boyish dimples light up his face, and to his right sits Delenn, holding his hand and smiling vibrantly.

"Marcus got you!" Garibaldi laughs. "He was the only one we thought we could send who could trick you into thinking you were on a date."

Yes. Susan laughs. Inside, however, something bitter is trickling down her throat, yes, he 'got' her. She remembers the way he let go of her hand right outside the door, as if he were ashamed of holding it, and mentally sighs.

Looking up at him, the Commander sees him sitting still, looking down at his plate.

But Stephen is talking to her, then, and she temporarily forgets, and forgets even more firmly as the wine is passed around, as her friends- her family- laugh at the way Lennier stares at human food, laugh at G'Kar singing a Narn party song. Raucious laughter and food and jokes about Drazi fills the room until past midnight.

It ends with Delenn; leaning in towards John, she whispers something in his ear, and he nods. They stand and raise their glasses.

"It's late, I'm bushed, and I want to end this on a toast before I hit my bed," John says with a smile. "To one of the very best officers I've worked with in my entire career, a woman with ascerbic humour and amazing skill. Happy thirtieth, Commander Susan Ivanova."

"Happy thirtieth," echoes the room. They rise and say last-minute farewells at the door before heading out, and Susan starts to follow.

"Susan, wait," calls Marcus; she hasn't even realised he was still sitting at the table.

He meets her slightly angry look aplogetically. "Susan- when I said I reserved us a table, I did. Lights, dim," he calls out.

Suddenly, waiters appear out of the darkness; the dirty plates are cleared and a clean table is placed by the window. Candles are lit, two glasses are filled- the waiters disappear.

Susan walks to the table slowly. Her discontent at being tricked begins to melt away; he is waiting for her to sit, his back straight.

"That wasn't nice," she says, leaning back in her chair. She fixes him with a serious look.

Marcus sighs. "I know, but they asked me to."

"You didn't think it up?"

"_No!" _he exclaims, as if the thought makes him sick. In fact, it does, but he can't quite place why.

He remembers the look she had given him when he dropped her hand. He reaches for it, across the table, and the feel of her hand in his is like a shock; shivers cascade down his spine. Quite suddenly he wants to pull her very close to himself, and for a second he almost does. He wrestles with the feeling and stays seated. He holds her hand and she lets him.

In the light of the candles, Susan watches his face, so open; a face of someone who has never been hurt and learned to hide what they feel. She wonders if he realises, when he takes her hand, that he has closed his eyes: something wonderful is in the curve of his lips, and pleasure dances on his eyelids.

Susan sees him, then, in a different light than before; she takes his hand, still in hers, and kisses it. He opens his eyes, startled, and she kisses it again, watching him and smiling. Witnessing her effect on him, a wickedly devious voice in her heart laughs.

But his eyes stall any thoughts of taking advantage: they say, I am in love, and you, if you are just teasing, are playing with a dangerous fire. Where the eyes go, the body follows, and he scoots his chair next to her. She starts to say something, but he kisses it away.

It is the morning after Susan Ivanova's thirtieth birthday, and she hardly even notices.


	10. Chapter 10

This is for Voleuse at livejournal dot com, for the 'babficathon' thingy.

"I was eighteen, and she was a bartender."

Michael Garibaldi sat at a table with his friends, Stephen, Susan, and Marcus. His pale face, sometimes so cold and dangerous, was jovial and flushed red from laughter.

Stephen, to his right, could feel tears in his eyes. "I'm surprised you went that long, Michael."

"Hey." Michael pointed a finger at him and sobered his mouth into a straight line. "I was a good boy growing up, you know the kind that makes the preachers proud, and then... heh... college."

Susan grinned madly. "College," she echoed.

Stephen shrugged, resignedly. "Alright, I admit, college. But I was quite a bit older than eighteen."

"How long were you even _in _college, Doc?" Michael teased, leaning on his elbows. He watched the doctor's face split into a wide grin.

"Twelve years."

The entire group dissolved into laughter again, slapping the table and leaning back in their chairs. It was the kind of event they might have frowned upon, had they been any less tired; had they not been up at four and to bed at midnight for months on end; had they not been just very slightly drunk (pardoning Michael, who had a large glass of water).

Other patrons of the bar stared, some in surprise. Many could recall countless times the Security Chief had kicked them out for similarly unruly behaviour. However, in the morning- when S.C. Garibaldi would saunter in with those superior eyes- the incident would be universally forgotten by all witnesses in the form of a mass, enveloping amnesia.

As the laughter died down, Stephen turned an accusative grin towards Marcus. "You don't think you're going to slip past us, do you? We've all shared ours, and you're not leaving this table until you do, too."

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but Susan beat him to it.

She snorted.

Stephen and Michael looked at her curiously. "Have something to share with the class, Susan?" Michael said, wryly.

She smiled, across the table, at Marcus. It was not a friendly smile. It was the smile of a cat that has trapped a baby bird in the corner, licking its lips as its prey cries 'Mommy, Mommy.'

"Susan..."

"You have to share."

"Hell no, I don't."

"Then I will."

"Don't you dare."

She smiled again, wider. And turned away from him, towards Michael and Stephen. She leaned towards them confidentially.

"He hasn't."

Garibaldi blinked.

Stephen smiled triumphantly. "I knew it!" He pointed at Marcus, practically crowing. "I _knew _you were a virgin. You act just like one."

"I do not!" The Ranger protested, his voice rising. "How do I? Name one way I do."

Michael looked at Stephen and nodded. "Women. I never see him around any."

"NOT TRUE." Marcus gesticulated madly. "...'M around them all the time! Susan here, for example. I see Susan every day."

"Not by choice," she grumbled.

"You never dress up, either. No lady would ever tolerate a man who wore the same thing, day in, day out."

Marcus glared at Michael. "Part of my job."

Michael laughed. "Is it part of your job to wear your Ranger uniform to parties? How about _bars, _for Heaven's sake?" He looked pointedly at his colleague's current attire.

Marcus sniffed. "A Ranger's j_ob_ is never done."

Stephen opened his mouth to say something, but Ivanova stopped him. "Don't be mean."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure you don't." She smiled and stretched. "Well boys, I think it's time to go home and feign sleeping."

"Home?" Michael echoed. He had never heard the Commander call any part of the Station that.

"Might as well be."

OOO

Marcus navigated the corridors of busy people with his mind elsewhere. Nice woman, that Susan Ivanova. Completely confidential and caring.

Not that, he realised, he had told her he was a virgin simply because he needed someone to tell. He had told her because she had asked.

Even at one thirty in the morning, the Station was busy and full. He ducked around two quibbling Pak'Mar'a on his way towards Green Sector. He had some business to cover with Delenn; she would be awake even now, he knew. The Minbari slept less than humans.

He would have talked to her earlier, if Stephen hadn't insisted he be social and practically dragged him to a drink.

As soon as he entered Green Sector, the amount of noise dropped considerably; he sighed in relief he hadn't even known he would feel. He was so used to the constant drone of noise that pervaded everywhere he went, and filled his apartment as he tried to sleep in Brown Sector.

"Marcus?"

The Ranger turned quickly and saw Susan behind him. He smiled at her, brightly, if tiredly. "'Allo Susan."

"What are you doing here? I mean, it's late, and you don't live around here, shouldn't you be going back towards your quarters?"

"A Ranger's job is never done, remember? I have ...business."

She looked him over and frowned. Susan couldn't see how she had missed it earlier in the evening, but something was amiss.

She had never been particularly maternal, but it didn't take a mother to see this was a man who was living outside of his means, both fiscally and in terms of time allotment. He was, frankly, haggard-looking. His unwashed hair was pushed back from a pale face- his clothes needed mending, or (if they had been hers) thrown away- there was something about his eyes that did not match the quiet, level-headed mannerisms of the Marcus she knew.

If she could even claim to know him at all.

She cleared her throat, unconsciously tapping one booted foot. "Is there... can I take care of it for you? In all honesty, Marcus- and don't take this the wrong way... you look like hell."

He smiled good-naturedly. "I know, I'm sorry you have to see the 'real' Marcus Cole. My fastidious twin took a vacation, sorry, don't know when he'll be back."

The foot-tappage continued.

He sighed and nervously brushed his hair back again. "Look, Susan. Thank you for offering, but I have to do this myself."

"I'd be more than willing to cover for you, if it meant you'd have a decent night's sleep. Hell Cole, it looks like you haven't been sleeping for a week straight. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You're a menace."

He smiled again. The expression was strained. "Maybe next time. Delenn is expecting me personally."

The Commander opened her mouth. A dozen arguments flew out silently, but she didn't verbalize any of them. She knew how stubborn Marcus was, like one of those damn ugly little bulldogs that got its grip on someone and wouldn't let go. It wouldn't help that she suspected what his business with Delenn was- not if he was so stuck on the ambassador 'expecting him personally.'

She suspected she could force him to return to his quarters by 'pulling rank.' He wasn't her subordinate, but he looked tired enough he might not even catch on.

But he would hate her for it.

If there was one thing she did know about Marcus, it was that he was fiercely loyal to his job, almost to the point of the ridiculous. Not many people, she knew, would- or could- get him to back down from fulfilling that obligation. A strange sense told her that perhaps she was one of them. But this wasn't the time- to use that respect he seemed to have for her- against him.

Instead, she pursed her lips and pointed a finger towards him. "Next time, then, Cole. And I don't want to see you again without... you. Sleeping. Eight hours. Got it?"

He smiled. The dangerous glint was gone, replaced once more with tiredness. "Yes ma'am."

OOO

The tired Ranger called at Delenn's door; it opened. He found, not really to his surprise, that she had been waiting for him.

"Good evening, Anlashok."

"Entilzah," he replied, bowing and forming a triangle with his hands. He straightened and waited for her to beckon him to be seated.

"I hear you have some information for me, Marcus." The small woman sat at her table and he sat beside, somewhat uphill from the gently drifting candle smoke. He disliked candles. He had seen way too much of them in Anlashok training, and now, even in case of an emergency, he would carry a lighter or alternate source of power. Something that did not smell floral.

He wondered if it was the goal of the Rangers to entirely mask all traces of masculinity. All that praying and long robes and candles and emotional storytime. Somehow, it made him uncomfortable, and he wondered if that was what women felt all the time.

He sighed and rubbed his temples. The weight of his information pulled his exhausted mind back from wandering.

"I do. My sources tell me of Shadow sightings in some of these outer sectors, pulling quietly together..."

OOO

An hour later, Marcus made his way towards his quarters. There were other things he needed to do, but Susan was right.

The closer he shuffled towards his room, the more grime and decay he could see around him. It wasn't an immediate change, but a built-up one, a gradual adding of more dirt and garbage and scum to the metal walls the closer one went to Brown Sector. He didn't mind that much.

Marcus looked around him, habitually checking for thieves or muggers. No one was around. He slid his keycard into the door lock and slipped inside.

Immediately, something about his quarters made the hairs stand up on his neck and shoulders. A light was on in the kitchen, the air smelled different, his... bed was made?

He cautiously crossed into the front room. There was nobody around and nothing missing. In the kitchen, the haphazardly-piled dishes on the counter and sink had mysteriously disappeared, and on the stove was a pot of-

"Hot cocoa?" he spluttered, eyebrows raised incredulously. He didn't even _have _hot cocoa. He leaned back, against the counter, and his hand stuck to a piece of paper.

'Marcus-

Next time, if I ask if I can help, you should let me do the easy stuff. Reporting on the whereabouts of enemy sources is a cinch. Cleaning your quarters is not.

I hope you like cocoa. And by the way- I am not your maid, and if you ever allow your personal hygiene to sink this low again, I will personally... hell, it's late, and I can't think of anything. But you will not like it.

Ivanova.'

Marcus read the paper twice. It was by far the strangest thing that had happened in the entire week. It beat out the stampeding Drazi, the random murders in the Zocalo, and the Pak'Mar'a toilet incident.

He wondered, briefly, how she had known about the content of his business with the ambassador. He shook his head- it would be better if he didn't even try to understand. She usually managed to get what she wanted.

A quiet smile touched his lips. It was strange, yes. And he supposed it was a backhanded compliment. But there _was_ a compliment in there somewhere, and that was the way he decided he would take it.

OOO

His good sleep that night was barely enough to give him the humour to deal with Stephen and Garibaldi. He saw them both at lunch, but hastily made his exit. There was only so long a person could appreciate virginity jokes.

Marcus spent the afternoon wandering around, allowing himself to enjoy the chaos of visitors and vendors and aliens- without caring overly much about galactic battles and Good versus Evil. He was really just a plebeian, anyway, he mused to himself. He highly doubted his life or death would shape the form of the Universe.

And there were other things on his mind. Susan's invasive cleaning of his apartment was one of them. If any other life-form but her had decided to use a highest-class security clearance card in order to break in and make cocoa, he might have cracked a few skulls as a form of retribution- or stress relief.

In her case, though... well, it was kind of hot.

It was the kind of thing _he _would do if, for example, a magical clearance card happened to drop from the air.

He sighed and sat on a bench near the transport tube to Green Sector. In all reality, any man could call him crazy for loving the Commander and they would be absolutely on the dot.

Growing up, Marcus learned one important thing concerning women from his father. Women with boyfriends were already taken, regardless of rings or marital status; it was a form of courtesy. So Marcus remembered this, because hearts were not toys or forms of revenge or personal gain.

After coming on the Station, it didn't take him too long to see that Susan Ivanova was not single.

If she had been single, men would been waiting for her around every corner. If she had been single, Marcus wouldn't be seen as crazy for loving her.

Ivanova was married to her job.

That much was obvious to any man. Her work would come before love and dinners, sex, long-term relationships.

As he sat waiting for the tube, Marcus knew it was more than that. She was also married to her grief. He supposed it came out in the form of a hard-nosed Ice Queen, and that only made sense; what was there to do in the face of continuous pain and disappointment? He only knew a handful of the events in her past, but he expected there were twice as many more. She was a magnet for grief.

It took one to know one- he was a magnet for suffering as well.

He got on the transport and almost smiled to himself; here he was, ignoring his father's advice again, here he was, in love with a married woman.

And there was no easy way to divorce her from her pain.

OOO

"Marcus! I thought I told you to-" Susan Ivanova answered the sound of his voice outside her door.

"I did! See? Eight hours, as ordered. _And _shaved. Or trimmed, really."

"Very ambitious of you."

He smiled and realised it was the smile of a smitten schoolboy, but he did not care. He wasn't a schoolboy, after all. He was a man- playing a game- hoping to win.

There was a pause. "I just came by to thank you for what you did. Little creepy coming home to it, but hey, it was nice of you."

Her lips twitched.

"What?" He asked, smiling bemusedly.

"I didn't think... you'd actually have the balls to confront me about that." She burst out laughing.

"Well," he spluttered, "I couldn't exactly let it go now, could I? Can't just forget you made my bed and folded my boxers!"

She was still laughing behind her hand. He had never seen her looking so red, or completely amused with herself. "It started out as a joke," she said at last, still chuckling.

"Started _out_ as?" Marcus continued to stare at her incredulously, secretly warmed by the laugh lines around her ample smile. "What were you going to do, originally?"

She shrugged and leaned back against the doorframe. "I didn't know, something. But it didn't go that way."

Quite suddenly he could see she had withdrawn, and he had a massive superstition that it was because she was shy about her motives. He had considered it the night before, but the thought came to him again that perhaps she had truly _cared._

He cleared his throat. "I don't even _have _cocoa."

Susan laughed through her nose. "Yes you do. Way in the back of one of those cupboards. It wasn't opened."

And Marcus was listening, it seemed, from far away; yes, this was exactly what he wanted. To just be able to talk to her and be around her. To, perhaps, take care of her. By God he would if he could.

"Susan, I have to take this data crystal to Lennier in the Gardens. Would you like to..."

She looked at him for a moment. She knew the struggle between earnestness and casualty in his eyes. She sighed and let a piece of her painful fears slip away to hide. For a moment she stood suspended and the moment was gone.

"Ah, hell. Why not?"

And Susan followed Marcus down the corridor.


End file.
